


The Dogs of War

by flyingfanatic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Lexa Lives, Romance, canon-divergent, continuation fic, picks up from before code 307 fucked up, we meet a whole bunch more grounders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6173300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingfanatic/pseuds/flyingfanatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Goodbyes are never easy. They are even harder when that separation once again puts Clarke and Lexa on opposite sides of a battlefield they cannot avoid. One last fight that may someday leave them free.</p><p>Lexa must enforce her blockade; cannot let her people suffer for her heart any longer. She must stand and even kill to protect them.</p><p>Clarke returns to Arkadia, to reclaim her role as the leader of her people and bring them to peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let Slip the Dogs of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke and Lexa do the dirty, nobody gets shot, and everybody heads to Arkadia.
> 
> “Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war”

Clarke knocks before she enters but does not wait for an answer, knowing she will be welcome. For a moment, she gazes around in confusion. Lexa’s room - the couch where she’d drawn her sleeping, the over-sized bed - is empty.

 

Then Lexa walks in from a room she had not realised existed, teasing out her hair between her fingers. Her soft vulnerability in that moment makes Clarke stall. They stop at opposite ends of the bed, the weight of unsaid words and impossible choices bearing down between them.

 

“When do you leave?”

 

“Now.”

 

Lexa nods and breathes deeply, knowing any words she might say could betray her instantly. This needs to be easier than it is or everything she has put herself through will fall apart.

 

As always, Clarke knows, just somehow knows, and takes a few soft steps towards her.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be. You have to go back, they’re your people.”

 

Above all things Lexa wished this could have been different. That Clarke could have stayed. That they did not have to say goodbye. That she could let herself believe they could be more to each other. That she could pretend there were no hard choices that made people more important than person.

 

“That’s why I…”

 

Clarke looks up. The words are painful, but maybe just this once they don’t have to hide behind their people, their bigger reasons, and can make a little space for themselves.

 

“That’s why you’re you.”

 

A short nod acknowledges how wide and deep a gulf lies between them and those words. Once said, they can never be brought back. There’s only so far they can take their honesty and still walk away, but neither can let the chance go without stretching it to the very limits.

 

“Maybe someday, you and I will owe nothing more to our people.”

 

“I hope so.”

 

Lexa does not believe it, but it is one small comfort to cling to. An acknowledgement that she answers by offering her hand for Clarke to grasp. A parting as friends, even if they once again must ride along opposing lines.

 

“May we meet again.”

 

For a moment the grip of their arms is the only contact between them other than the desperation echoed back and forth between their eyes. The anguish plays across Clarke’s face and her eyes flicker with a decision bypassing her reason straight from her gut.

 

This goodbye is not good enough. The world has never been just, neither in the sky nor on the ground, and for one brief dappled moment Clark decides she’s done with sacrifice. The world owes her an hour just to herself.

 

Clarke’s hand reaches for the back of Lexa’s neck and that beautiful hair she’s longed to run her own fingers through and brings her in to the kiss Lexa had dreamed she would over and over.

 

The walls come crashing down inside Lexa and the first tear she has cried in years is allowed to roll unchecked.

 

The pain flies up and out of Clarke in the soft gasp between kisses that shakes with the enormity of the welling inside her throat.

 

The idle thoughts that she has traced in charcoal mean her hands already know the smooth lines of Lexa’s neck and the particular way she ties the back of her shirt. Clarke pulls it apart easily and slides it down. She wants Lexa and wants her to know it, right now.

 

Most of Lexa cannot really believe this is happening, but the parts that can are crying with the joy that Clarke is finally kissing her and trembling with the terror that this is all they are going to get. Clarke gently backs her towards the bed and she sits heavily. Her eyes are wide with hope and the light sheen of her tears and Clarke pauses, desperate to say something, anything to make this better.

 

But there are no words. Not now.

 

Lexa knows that and she just wants this. She just wants Clarke.

 

So she reaches up and pulls Clarke down on top of her.

 

//

 

In the peace of the time they have left, Lexa lets herself show Clarke her love without words by lying with her exposed back to her. Closing her eyes Lexa simply allows this be the two of them, lying peacefully in her bed with Clarke’s fingers tracing the lines of the tattoo on her arm.

 

“If Octavia and I are going to get behind the blockade by dawn – ”

 

“Sssh.” Lexa stops her sentence with a soft smile that Clarke cannot see but which echoes in her face.

 

Delighting in the ability to simply touch Lexa, Clarke sweeps her hand up and down her arm then traces the intricate ink weaving down her spine. Her brow furrows with the realisation that she has no idea what any of it means. She knows so little about the woman she wishes she had more time with.

 

“This is beautiful.”

 

“I got it on my Ascension Day. A circle for every natblida that died when the Commander chose me.”

 

Now she’s glad she’s facing away so Clarke cannot see the sadness creeping in and darkening the light she feels on her cheek.

 

“Seven circles. I thought you said there were nine officiates at your conclave?”

 

“There were.” Lexa takes a moment to compose herself all over again before shifting to face Clarke. “Can we talk about something else?”

 

“We don’t have to talk at all,” Clarke suggests with the hint of a smirk.

 

In response Lexa beams and eagerly welcomes joy and Clarke back in to her arms. Clarke lifts to meet her and they kiss again, just them in the small bubble where Lexa can run her hand up and down Clarke’s naked side and they can melt in the increasing intensity of their kisses.

 

Lexa dares to hope in that moment that somehow they will never be done because this is making her blood sing, but for now she can let herself flow in to Clarke. All the pain and the unshed tears travels down and out into the woman she loves, into bucking with and against her and thrilling in it all.

 

When Clarke gets up and starts to dress Lexa reluctantly moves to rise, but a hand on her shoulder stops her.

 

“No. In case – This is the memory I want to take with me.”

 

So Lexa stays in her bed as Clarke dresses, pulling the sheets up against the sudden chill. The skin she had just so lovingly explored is covered up inch by inch, the shuttered strength Clarke let fall around her is nailed back up.

 

It falls only for a second when Clarke leans over to kiss her goodbye, and whisper one final echo against her lips.

 

“Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim.”

 

//

 

After Clarke has gone Lexa stays in her bed, breathing the smell of her on her pillow, running her hands over the disturbed furs where they had lain together. Even as the sun shining through the window fades steadily to sunset she holds on to the memories. Lexa will take this time and fold it neatly in to a small square to store deep inside her, a comforting lump under her skin as the chip inside her neck has always been.

 

Somehow she manages to file everything away before they come to get her, before the loud banging and cries for Heda crash down on to her and force her to step in to that skin again. She is still in bed when her body servants come in to dress her and braid her hair for the march to the blockade around Arkadia but at least she is ready to lift herself out of bed and direct the image of Heda without resenting every single one of them for not being Clarke.

 

//

 

Octavia is watching the same sunset, cursing herself for ever believing the one person that could truly help her fix everything might actually be able to step up. Bitterly she steps down and away from the agreed meeting place, striding off in the direction of her horse and the battle only she seems willing to fight.

 

“Octavia kom skaikru!”

 

Briefly the hope flickers across her face and when she turns, there is Indra. Her arm is in a sling, there is a slight awkwardness to her gait that was not there before, but it is still Indra. They grasp arms in the warrior’s embrace and Octavia begins to see the thin silver line she can follow to victory.

 

They lock eyes. Although the same old hard flint is somewhere in Indra’s eyes, it is almost drowned in the mire of failure and betrayal. Octavia’s eyes sing of nothing but conviction. With her old teacher by her side she is kru again, a grounder warrior with a spirit that will not surrender.

 

Side by side they stride forward against the world.

 

//

 

By the time Clarke makes it to the rendezvous the sun has sunk too low and Octavia is already gone. Those few extra stolen moments will always be worth it. Even with the long hard ride ahead of her to catch up before Octavia enters Arkadia.

 

She cannot imagine that her welcome is going to be that warm even with that fierce blade at her side. The horse Lexa’s warriors have given her is strong, but she’s not sure how much of a start Octavia has. Still, she has to make it. If anything is going to change, she has to be there. Clarke knows that.

 

After all that has happened, after all she has had to do; they are still her people. Part of her begins to see why Octavia was quite so desperate to have her back. It does not matter who thinks they are the leader of the Skaikru.

 

She is in charge.

 

Without her they are clearly lost. For all the gentle mocking in her heart in the face of Lexa’s conviction, she knows this much. Clarke is the leader of her people. Wanheda.

 

The only way back is to move forward. To bring her people to peace.

 

//

 

With delicate, dexterous fingers her body servants have shaped the perfect tight braids along the side of Lexa’s head. Not only will her face be clear for battle, but her warriors will see determination in the emphasised, angular lines of her face and head. The clothes that Clarke had stripped from her with such loving tenderness remain abandoned on the other side of the bed. In their place she straps the hard lines of her armour and the trappings of Heda. As each buckles clicks in to place and each sweeping cloth flows over her skin she embodies the leader her people need. The change is visible in her face and her body servants have seen it before. They have watched Lexa become Heda and stride out the door with squared shoulders, leaving her heart locked away in a secret place.

 

Tonight she strides down to the foot of the tower where her horse is waiting. With a business-like air she checks over every part of her horse’s equipment, the knife strapped to one corner and the spare sword tucked under the saddle bags. It is important they see her alert and ready for anything.

 

As she swings in to the saddle she sees Aden. Heda does not show favouritism through a second, but he is old enough now to ride out to a battle such as this with his own mentor. Lexa meets his eyes for the briefest of moments, then nudges her horse out of Polis to the waiting lines of warriors.

 

With one hand one the reins and the other lifted towards her gathered army, Lexa gives the signal to move forward. That little square under her skin gives her hope that they are marching to peace.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim = May we meet again.


	2. Our Dark Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Emori is the sneakest spy, Monty continues to be awesome, and Clarke catches up to Indra and Octavia.
> 
> “In spite of all some shape of beauty moves away the pall from our dark spirits.”

When Murphy begins to come round, he realises he is gagged and bound hand and foot. Again. Not only that, but his neck is tied to a pole. Honestly, he thinks, who ties someone to a pole?

Ah, yes. That someone comes in to the field of vision limited by his swollen eyes. Of course that dude tied him to a pole after he explained his entire mythology. He would roll his eyes but he is fairly sure he would pass out from the pain.

In fact it is a wave of pain from his awkwardly held shoulders that means he does not see the second figure until it has already knocked Titus to the ground. The man rolls and prepares to get back up again but his masked attacker is too fast, much faster than Murphy was in his attempted escape, and soon has a knife to Titus’ throat.

A swift hit to the temple with the hilt of the blade and Titus is incapacitated. For a while at least.

The attacker obviously knows that, and moves quickly to restrain him before moving towards Murphy. With his sounds of protest muffled by the gag and his attempts to pull away fruitless, he gives up and glares at them. To his surprise, he hears muffled giggles from behind the mask.

One hand pulls the cloth away to reveal Emori’s distinctive tattoos and laughing smile.

“Any more of this and I might start thinking you like getting kidnapped.”

She reaches up and tugs the gag out of Murphy’s mouth before moving behind him to saw at the rope of his bindings. Careful to aim at Titus, he spits the taste of unwashed cloth out of his mouth.

“It’s not like I volunteered to be captured and tortured. It just keeps happening.” 

“Clearly you can’t take care of yourself,” Emori half-jokes as she helps him down.

The pack Emori is carrying has a new set of clothes; his old ones are torn and soiled with blood. He dresses gingerly, careful of his wounds, while she keeps watch at the door. He thinks he is done and gathers himself up to limp out, but she stops him with one gloved hand.

“Cover your face.”

She points to the remaining material in the pack, which Murphy pulls on his head. Emori smiles one last time before covering her own face.

“Don’t look anyone in the eye. You don’t want them to question why you’re hiding your face.”

“Why wouldn’t they question it?”

“Taint on the blood.”

//

Monty bursts through the door into the infirmary, sweat and mud covering one side of his face.

“Where’s Abby?” he demands of Jackson, who takes one look of his face and rushes off to find the doctor.

Forced to negotiate the door sideways, Bellamy eases in with Munroe limp in his arms and takes her over to the bed Monty clears. The two of them had taken turns carrying her from the grounder village so they could maintain a steady trot.

It’s not long before Abby rushes in to the infirmary, heading straight for Munroe while Jackson hangs and drags over an IV. Monty is sitting at Munroe’s head and she addresses her questions to him, as Bellamy has retreated to perch on the next bed over.

‘What happened?”

“Acid fog. Somehow – I don’t know – It’s in the trees – The Grounders set them on fire –” Monty’s explanation is lost in a hacking bout of coughing.

While Jackson places hands on Monty’s shoulder and back to straighten him and offers an oxygen mask to get his breathing back under control, Abby tilts back Munroe’s head, examining the lining of her throat before checking for a pulse.

“How long since she stopped breathing?”

“Not long,” Monty glances back at Bellamy for confirmation, but the man is lost in his inner turmoil, silently absorbing the pieces falling down around him.

“We’ve got one ventilator that should still work, in the other room – Bellamy? Bellamy!”

He snaps out of his stunned reverie and immediately hops down.

“I’m on it.” 

It’s only a brief time that Abby and Monty are alone to share a glance over Munroe’s unconscious body, but the acknowledgement is there. They cannot long stave off the disaster hurtling towards them.

All they can do is take each problem as it attacks them.

The squeak of wheels announces Bellamy and Jackson’s return with the ventilator, which is quickly set up. Abby gently pushes Monty away so Jackson can hold Munroe’s head back from one side and she can slowly push the white tube down her throat.

Monty is almost apoplectic with impatience. It’s taking too long, it’s too complicated, Munroe is going to die and there’s nothing they can do, there’s never anything any of them can do.

At first the only sound is the rhythmic swoosh of the machine, Abby’s fingers deathly still on Munroe’s neck.

It’s Bellamy who finally speaks.

“Can you help her?”

“I don’t know. But at least now I have the time to try.”

//

It’s a hard ride from Polis to Arkadia and Clarke has never done it at a canter before. Most of the Grounders she knows ride with the same ease they wield a sword or walk silently through the forest. Life-long habits that she has tried to learn in mere months.

As the horse thunders on she grasps the saddle with one hand and tries not to wince.

When she finally catches up to them, it is clear Indra and Octavia have heard her coming. They are both turned to face her on the trail, weapons drawn, wary of pursuit. Clarke pulls up short and dismounts, walking steadily towards an uncertain welcome. While Indra stays mounted, Octavia swings down to meet her. They stand facing each other for a moment, inscrutable, before Octavia offers her arm.

They shake in the grounder fashion as Indra dismounts. Though it only lasts a moment, somehow Clarke can see the hope rise in Octavia’s eyes, tinted at the edges with an eagerness for the fray. She hopes her eyes seem as sure.

“Klark kom Skaikru. Octavia said you were not coming.”

“I got… delayed.”

Octavia scoffs at her but thankfully says nothing. Indra has bigger concerns.

“The blockade will be in force soon. We must be in Arkadia when that happens.”

“Well for sure we can’t ride through the gates. We look like grounders;” Octavia gestures at their clothes, “They’ll shoot us on sight.”

Clarke’s expression is distant and bitter when she replies, “We could learn a lot from the grounders.”

A few steps take her to the slight rise they are on, and in to view of the ruined spaceship her people have been living in for months. After the open symbiosis of the grounder city, Arkadia looks like a dark claw tearing in to the landscape, harsh and unyielding. Clarke has no idea how to bring her people back from this. She just knows it is the only way forward. The only thin line that might lead her back to a sense of hope under dappled sunlight. For a moment she looks up at the sky and almost cannot breathe when she recognises why her chin has tilted upwards. It passes, and she knows now that she looks back to Octavia with the steady gaze of conviction.

“You got me in once. Can you do it again?”

“It’s what I do.”

//

From the same bluff where she first had glimpsed the Skaikru camp Lexa watches the sunrise over the trees.

On either side and several feet behind her guards and their horses alike are silent and still, as if they are part of the landscape. Lexa stands alone and separate once again. Soon she must go down and gather with the leaders of the clans and convince them to rest their faith not on her shoulders, but on those of a clan that flaunts their laws at every turn.

She has no way to know whether Clarke managed to pass safely through the lines before her kill order came in to effect. Even if she got inside, it does not mean Clarke is safe. If they would attack her days before, on the heels of a massacre and with the threat of war outside their gates, there is no telling what they might do now. If Lexa has learnt anything about the Skaikru, it is that it is impossible to anticipate their actions.

So all she can do is wait, worry, and hope.


	3. Slings and Arrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke gets in to Arkadia and the clans assemble.

Indra stops them at the tree line just shy of Arkadia, and she and Octavia begin stripping the saddlebags of anything useful. Clarke runs her hand down her horses’ neck, remembering the first time she rode.

Back when the grounder camp still meant being surrounded by enemies, she had watched the horses from a distance. There were many small herds spread around in horse lines throughout the army, warriors moving with an easily familiarity around the large animals.

Clarke couldn’t quite feel comfortable enough to approach any of them until Lexa offered to take her over. She had opened her mouth to refuse but then, somehow, found herself nodding.

She could accept that one small kindness from Lexa.

Clarke releases the horse.

As the Trikru drums begin to sound, she can only hope that the horse will find his way back to the army gathering around Arkadia. Maybe Lexa will see him, recognise him, and know that Clarke got through safely. Maybe.

In the meantime, she has to turn her attention to following Octavia through the brush to the gap in Arkadia’s wall and whispered questions about the plan that she definitely didn’t have yet.

“What of the warriors loyal to you?” Indra asks. “Will they rise up?”

“An army inside the walls?” Clarke says. “That didn’t work so well last time.”

“It’s even less of an army this time. There can’t be more than twenty grounders, all sick or injured. The only real fighter in there is Lincoln.” Octavia’s voice hardens around her lover’s name.

“I just need a few; they don’t even have to be fighters. It’s Pike we need to capture, and I need to find out how to get close to him before we can do anything.”

“His followers are not exactly innocent,” Indra spits.

“I know. Just – let me find out who’s on our side first. We’re all marked inside these walls.”

Octavia stops, hand on a panel.

“End of the line, Wanheda.”

Indra grabs Clarke’s arm with her good hand. “We’ll hold here until sun-up. If you’re not back, we march in. Plan or no.”

Clarke nods and disappears through the gap, leaving Indra and Octavia alone.

The gruff jerk of Indra’s head to her sling is as much of a please as Octavia is going to get. She undoes the knot at Indra’s neck and then steps back, allowing the grounder leader to gingerly test the motion of her damaged arm. It’s a sight only Octavia gets to see, a motion that would never have happened in front of Clarke because it suggests weakness. Fortunately Octavia is behind Indra as she cannot stop a pleased grin creeping across her face. This is the warrior she followed in to battle yelling at the top of her lungs.

“I’m ready,” Indra says.

Octavia nods, then returns her eyes to the crack in the wall. They wait.

//

Suddenly alone in an abandoned section of the ship, Clarke pauses. Last time she was here she knew exactly where to go. Now, anywhere could be enemy ground. Not only that, but when she peers out in to the corridor beyond she sees Skaikru in every direction. She’d be spotted the moment she stepped out.

Then an enraged scream brings everyone to a halt.

The noise outside reaches fever pitch and the Arkadians rush outside, convinced the grounder army is descending upon them. The hall is clear and Clarke realises there is only one space she can go to with any guarantee of finding help.

The infirmary.

Clarke breaks in to a run, ducking unnoticed through the chaos. When she barges through the door she almost knocks Monty down and then has to push him aside intentionally, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Where’s my mother?!”

“Behind you.”

Monty slides out when Clarke releases him to face Abby. The two stand transfixed until Clarke notices Zoe, prostate on the bed behind them. She rushes past Abby.

“What happened?”

“We attacked a grounder village,” Monty says. “They were ready for us.”

Clarke rests a hand on Zoe’s arm, watching the artificially even rise and fall of her chest.

“We’ve got other problems. I took these off Jaha the other day.” Abby places a small blue chip in Clarke’s hand. “It’s some kind of pain disruptor – Sinclair’s got the rest, hopefully he’ll be able to tell us more.”

“This is tech? Not drugs?”

“Definitely tech.”

Clarke turns over the small chip with a slight frown. She’s sure she had seen the small broken infinity symbol on it somewhere, but Abby interrupts before she can chase down the memory.

“It doesn’t just block pain. Thelonious couldn’t remember who Wells was. And… I’m fairly sure Raven’s taken one.”

“We’ve lost Raven?”

“Not if I can help it,” Sinclair says from the doorway.

Abby opens her mouth to question him, but Clarke beats her to it.

“What have we got?”

“Not good news.” Sinclair looks both ways down the corridor before shutting the infirmary door. “It’s worse than we thought. These chips – they’re linked, somehow. I can’t tell what to, but there’s only one reason to put a neural link inside somebody.”

“Mind control,” says Abby.

“Can you do anything about it?”

“I can’t get it out, but I can block the link.” Sinclair produces a box surrounded by a small mess of wires from his pocket. “You’ll have to get close enough for skin contact, I have no idea what side effects it’ll have on a person, and that’s the only one. I haven’t got the parts to make another.”

“One shot.” Clarke takes the device in her upturned palm. “One shot to get everything back.”

Part of Clarke tortures herself, wondering whether she did the right thing by staying in Polis. These are her people, and they have suffered.

But then she thinks back to the massacre. To the look in Lexa’s eyes when she called for blood. If she had not have been there, Clarke wonders, would Lexa have chosen mercy?

So many choices: Nia’s vote of no confidence; the fight with Roan; Nia’s death; the attempted killing by one of Lexa’s own people. The election in Arkadia, Kane’s brand, the peacekeeping army. There is no way to know what may have happened if Clarke had not have been by Lexa’s side.

Now there’s no choice. She had to leave Lexa’s side just as she’d finally admitted that she wanted to be there.

Yet as she thinks of Lexa and looks around the assembled faces of the Sky People that could actually save themselves, and realises that not one of them knows. That they could fail or win and that the secret thread that tugs out past the walls to the fires in the trees might stay invisible forever.

Only Octavia and Indra have any idea that anything beyond the play of one power against another has passed between her and Lexa.

//

Lexa has a single mark at the juncture of where her shoulder and neck meet; a love mark just low enough to be hidden under her clothes. Sometimes she’ll shift slightly and she can feel the hard lines of her armour rub against it. During the snatches she can be alone, she pulls back her shirt just far enough to touch it with her fingertips. She cannot see it, but it is there.

Proof in those moments when that all too short afternoon begins to seem like something from another life.

She is interrupted from her reverie by the arrival of the Ingranrona, riding along the front lines of the blockade so that the Arkadia guards can see them.

Although their weapons are slung over their backs for travelling, they have come dressed for war. Most have their heads uncovered to reveal faces smeared with black paint. They ride without saddles, bulls’ horns and cougars’ teeth hang on strings around their necks or woven in to their hair. Each is dressed distinctively, from hard leather to scavenged metal plates strung together as armour. One man, twice the breadth of the others, is wearing an intact pauna skin. The animal’s great shaggy head covers his own and the pelt falls down his back to rest on his horse’s rump.

The lead rider slips easily off a dark bay horse and kneels in front of Heda, rising to meet an outstretched hand with a warrior’s clasp. The two hold the formal greeting for a moment before breaking in to a crushing hug.

“You ride fast,” Lexa says as they part.

“Grabbed my best riders and came as soon as your pigeon arrived. Damn useful birds, damn useful. Shame I couldn’t train it to peck out our jokken bushhada of an ambassador’s eyes.”

“I do not blame you for his actions, Thara.”

Thara shrugs. “Of course not. The blame lies with him, and I will carve it out of his flesh if he is ever foolish enough to show his face in Ingranrona lands again.”

The remaining riders dismount and move out to find places in the grounder camp, exchanging insults and loud greetings with the Trikru warriors. Lexa turns, leading Thara and the village chiefs back in to her tent. The briefing is short, their position simple. Once the riders have been assigned their picket lines there is little left to do except wait, so Lexa orders fires lit and food brought.

The three leaders lounge on furs outside, together in full few of the camp. So soon after Azgeda’s challenge, Lexa needs her warriors to see the other clans bolstering her position.

Thara leans closer so they can talk without the guards hearing.

“How long until the others get here?”

“Trishana and Yujleda should be here within the next day or so. The others; before the end of the week. Roan was the only one close.”

“You think the Skaikru know that?”

“They know very little about our people. Most of them.”

Thara settles back. “I’ll feel better when the Trishana get here. Their dogs will put the fear of the taint in to these gun-wielders.”

Roan stands.

“Azgeda will dance.”

He and his warriors strip naked without ceremony and line up facing Arkadia. With their hands on the hips, they begin to stamp and soon a drummer picks up the beat, then several, echoing the noise through the small valley. Roan’s sekken pulls a small flute out of his furs and begins to play a high, rapid tune that sends the warriors in to a furious rhythm. Their feet fly back and forth, hitting the ground hard and sending dirt flying towards the Skaikru camp.

Thara grunts. “I’ve heard about this. Never seen it though.”

“Azgeda dance to show their bravery.”

“I fail to see what’s so brave about taking your clothes off.”

“Maybe if you lived in a land where the water freezes, you might see it differently,” Lexa replies in a wry tone.

As if reading her mind, one of Lexa’s body servants appears at her elbow at the exact moment the leader rises to her feet. The heavy armour is unbuckled and taken away so that Lexa can pull off the remainder of her clothes, stepping forward to join the Azgeda.

Roan’s warriors part to make space for Lexa in the centre. With a final leap they all come crashing to the ground at the same moment then fall silent, waiting expectantly. Lexa throws back her head to scream a challenge at the sky and the camp erupts around her. The Azgeda howl, the Ingranrona snarl and the Trikru bellow and screech and when Lexa’s foot thumps on the ground the drumbeat picks up again, every skin in the camp sounding.

They dance until the sweat pours off their bodies and when Lexa finally steps out, exhausted, Thara rises to fill her place.

Lexa waves over a camp attendant and orders barrels of cider brought, enough to send all the warriors not on the picket line in to a reeling haze. In the excitement over the arrival of the food and drink Lexa slips back into her clothes but leaves her armour behind.

On one side of the dead ground between tree and fence fires flicker in the night. On the other side, gun scopes blink when they catch the edge of the flames. Walking along the line of her assembled army, Lexa gathers in to herself all her emotions, all her thoughts, and steadily passes through them, carefully assessing each one.

Jus drein jus draun was easy in a life stripped of emotion. Throughout her training Lexa was taught that death had meaning. Both hers and the lives she took. It was the only thing that gave anyone’s life any value.

But how can she seek the blood of others now she finally has something to live for?

Now staying alive has meaning all of its own.


	4. Method in the Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke takes charge, Lexa eats breakfast, Raven is badass, Indra is angry and Octavia exchanges hiding under the floor for climbing into the ceiling.

Lexa wakes to an empty tent.

The furs that would normally cover one of her bodyguards or attendants are cold. After the raucous state of the camp the night before, it’s not surprising they found other places to sleep. It has been too long since her people stood united against an enemy they knew they could beat and the sheer thrill of it went to their heads much faster than the cider.

When she swings her feet out from under the furs, her skin prickles with the chill. Not the true cold of the new season, not yet. The day will be warm but soon the leaves will turn and the ground will shine in the morning. The village leaders should be home, setting aside stores, not sitting on a cold hill watching a people who have never seen snows.

Lexa makes a mental note to double the next day’s foraging parties, then begins to dress. Alone, she keeps her hair in last night’s braids and leaves most of her armour behind, simply snapping her pauldrons in place and strapping a single short sword at her waist.

The camp is only just waking as she steps outside. A few tents along a small fire is burning steadily, grilling flat oatcakes lain on a withy of green wood.

The warrior sitting next to the fire is weaving a small wooden needle through a rent in his cloak, but puts it aside when he sees Lexa.

“Monin, Heda. Have you eaten yet?”

“No, thank you.”

She flips an oatcake from the fire with a stick, bouncing it in her hands and blowing gently until it cools. As she eats, she looks towards Arkadia and wonders, as she had been all night, if Clarke is still alive in there. Were it one of their leaders sneaking in to her camp, she would stake them in full view of Arkadia while he was killed, slowly. The thought that she might be allowing another woman she loves to die in pain makes the oatcake stick in her throat. Clenching one fist tight, she forces the food down her throat and the thought from her head. She must have faith in Clarke, who can snatch victory when all others have failed.

Lexa swallows the last of her breakfast just as the first explosion rocks Arkadia.

 

//

Clarke braces her hands on the table, making sure she has everyone’s attention before she speaks.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.

Mom, I need you to set up a quarantine line, just far enough down the hall that we can get Indra and Octavia from the tunnel without being seen. Pike will know something’s wrong as soon as he finds out, but I’m betting the grounders will keep him distracted long enough.”

“Long enough for what?” asks Monty.

“That’s the tricky part…..”

Fifteen minutes later Jackson is standing at the quarantine line, a mask over his face. As soon as the corridor is clear he waves Abby and Sinclair forward and they disappear down the corridor towards engineering.

Raven does not look pleased to see Abby.

“What now? Gonna try and haul me off the work detail again? I told you, I’m good.”

Sinclair steps forward in to the room. “It’s just a check-up. A tick in the box.”

Raven gives Sinclair an exasperated look and then turns back to Abby.

“Don’t you have better things to do? We’re under attack if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I had. There’re no casualties yet but there will be and before that happens Sinclair wants to make sure you won’t need me.”

“Fine.” Raven puts down her tools and turns to face Abby, arms folded. “But make it quick, I’ve got work to do too.”

Abby steps forward to examine Raven, forcing herself to move through the motions in her usual brisk and practiced manner. Just as she shines a small torch in Raven’s eye, Sinclair darts behind her and clamps the blocker down on the back of her neck.

Abby grabs hold of both of Raven's hands before she can move to pull it off.

“Raven, Raven, please, look at me. We’re not here to hurt you. We know about the chips, we know what’s happened to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Raven says automatically.

“I know you took one of Jaha’s chips.”

“So that’s what you’re really wanted. What’ve you got against Jaha? He’s helping people. Just because you couldn’t do anything about my leg doesn’t mean I have to sit here, being useless! I’m not in pain any more – you want to change that?”

“He couldn’t remember Wells.”

“What?”

“Jaha. He couldn’t remember his own son. These pills, they’re doing something more than blocking pain.”

“I’d think losing his only son was pretty painful. What if it was Clarke? She came down here with Wells – it could just as easily been her buried in the dirt. You really thing you'd trot out the same party line then? Or would you send somebody hurtling down in a death trap to come save her?”

“I... you know I'd do anything I could to save Clarke, but if.... I would never give up that pain. Never. Even if Clarke was… can’t you see that’d be like losing them all over again? All those memories, all that love, the life she led, I’d want to keep that. Just like you want to keep Finn.”

Raven’s mouth opens to protest, but instead slowly closes in to a frown. Sinclair frantically makes shushing motions at Abby, who also swallows the sentence she’d been about to say. Left to think, Raven lets the last words slowly revolve in her mind. She knows who Finn is, she wouldn’t forget him, that’s ridiculous… but then, when she tries to form a solid memory, a single event she shared with him, there’s just blank. Nothing.

“I can’t remember Finn…”

//

Down the opposite hall, Indra is marching with her sword drawn, following Kane as he leads the way to the brig containing her people. He pauses just shy of the doorway, stopped by the two guards flanking it.

“What do we…?” 

Indra interrupts by sweeping past Kane, closing on the guards before they can raise their weapons. She catches the first gun with her blade, smashing it up in to the guard’s face before slamming the hilt in to the other’s temple. Leaving them groaning and bleeding on the floor, she pushes forward in to the brig.

“Lincoln!”

“Indra! What are you – you shouldn’t be here, if they find you…”

“If they find me, I’ll kill them.”

Kane kicks the guns away from the guards and begins to search them for keys. He’s so intent on his search that he doesn’t notice Bellamy until there’s a quiet clinking behind him.

“You won’t find the keys, if that’s what you’re looking for.”  
Kane rises slowly and turns to face Bellamy, who is dangling the keys from one finger. A series of impassioned speeches flit through Kane’s head. Before he has time to use any of them, Indra knocks him out of the way and brings her sword to Bellamy’s throat. His eyes flick from Indra’s sword to Lincoln, tensed just the other side of the bars.

“Give me one more reason to want to kill you,” Indra spits.

“How about one less reason.” Bellamy tosses the keys to Kane. “I can help.”

Even so, Indra keeps the tip of her blade pressed against Bellamy’s throat while Kane unlocks the jail cell and helps Lincoln get some of the weaker grounders to their feet. Both are inside the jail cell when one of the guards begins to groan and roll over. This time, Indra’s strike looks to kill, not stun.

“Wait!” Bellamy moves to stop her and she immediately snaps back to him, forcing him away.

“You won’t catch me off my guard again, Skaikru.”

“I don’t…. I wasn’t trying to attack you. The cuffs. Please, just let me cuff her. Both of them. Just, please, don’t kill her, she was just...” Bellamy’s words trail away, fleeing from the cold rage on Indra’s face.

“Following orders?” Indra finishes for him.

What she might have done or said next is stalled when Lincoln gently rests his hand on her shoulder.

“We should let them live. There’s no honour in killing a helpless enemy… No need to stoop to their level. You’re better than that.”

For several beats Indra glares at Bellamy, debating Lincoln’s words against the vengeance coursing through her arm. In the end, a curt nod permits Bellamy to restrain the guards. Lincoln squeezes Indra’s shoulder before turning to help a woman weak with fever through the door. He refuses Indra’s offer of a knife and the two move as fast as the villagers can follow down the corridor.

In the end, it is Kane that Bellamy rises to face once the guards are cuffed.

“You need distractions, right?”

Kane nods. “As many as we can get.”

“I’m on it.”

//

“What do you mean this should do? There’s barely enough here to blow up this tin can!”

Raven pops out of the hole in the wall and brandishes the offending container at Monty, who flings his hands outwards.

“That’s all we’ve got! Either you make it work, or we’re all screwed.”

“Fine.”

Raven disappears again, muttering to herself and leaving Monty alone in the corridor, anxiously bouncing on the balls of his feet.

As she fights her way through the narrow spaces inside the crashed ship Raven mutters to herself, as much to keep thoughts of Alie at bay as to vent her anger.

“Clarke wants an explosion, Clarke wants an explosion… well then maybe Clarke should get enough damn gunpowder to actually explode something… best this pile of mouse droppings could do is start a campfire, let alone knock a hole in a ship that doesn’t go up when some fool forgets to engage the port thruster and crashes it into a mountain…”

Halfway over a defunct air pipe Raven stops, a grin slowly spreading over her face.

“The port thrusters! Dammit Reyes, a child knows there’s enough fuel in there to send this tin can back in to space!”

Raven pulls herself the rest of the way over the pipe and plunges off down the corridor with a determined whisper; “Still got it.”

//

Back in the infirmary, Octavia shoves a bowl of dark paste at Clarke, her voice and face brooking no refusal.

“Ready to be Wanheda?”

“I’m ready.”

Clarke goes to smear the same two sharp lines she had worn at the Coalition assembly, and then pauses. The memory of black jagged lines down Lexa’s face is as clear as any she has. Ignoring Octavia’s exasperated eye roll, she checks the detail in the reflective metal of a dish.

A sudden explosion sends Clarke lurching against a wall, dropping the dish with clatter that’s lost in the din. Octavia recovers faster. She climbs on to a table and pulls out a ceiling panel, hoisting herself out of sight and then popping back out, head first, to offer her arm to Clarke.

“That’s our signal. Let’s go end this.”


	5. Break My Heart But Hold My Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven blows shit up, Octavia throws punches, and Clarke and Lexa finally talk again.
> 
> “It is not nor it cannot come to good:  
> But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.”

Bellamy is running down the hall, a few steps from the door to Pike’s war room when the first explosion slams him against the wall.

He’s made it to the doorway, and can brace himself with both hands on the frame when the second hits. He’s been through too many battles to make the mistake of asking what’s happening; he launches himself towards the map table and braces against it. The others are already using the table as an anchor. Hannah Green and two other guard officers flank Pike, positioned at the head of the table.

“Told you the grounders could never be trusted,” he remarks to Bellamy with an oddly calm tone. “The explosions aren’t hitting any critical systems - this isn’t the main attack, it’s a decoy. Hannah, get the guards to the perimeter, prepared for an attack from the blockade.” He taps the map of Arkadia with his finger. “They’ll be coming for the front gate, assuming we’ll be busy trying to stop the explosions. Do not let them breach our perimeter.”

With a sharp chorus of “Yes, chancellor,” the guard officers leave for the gate at a disciplined trot.

“I told you they were treacherous. They never would have let us stay here in peace, it was always going to be us and them. Now you see why we had to strike first, why we had to - “

The rest of his speech is cut off when Octavia and Clarke burst through the ceiling behind Bellamy. They both land in fighter’s crouches, weapons drawn. Bellamy turns, and meets Clarke’s gaze.

For a beat they stare at each other, then the third explosion shakes Pike into action.

“Clarke! Bellamy, cuff her! Now!”

“No. You were right, the explosions were a distraction. But the main attack wasn’t from outside. It’s them.”

Bellamy steps aside, permitting Octavia to step up and knock Pike to the ground. The reinforced knuckles of her glove send him reeling to the floor with two deep cuts along his cheekbone. While his sister makes quick work of disarming and restraining her new prisoner, Bellamy faces Clarke with his hands turned palm up.

“What now? You going to kill him? Me?”

“No. I’m going to deliver you both to the grounders to face justice.”

“Like Finn did?”

Clarke slaps him.

“You don’t get to say his name to me, not after what you’ve done. Now move, or we’ll tie you too.”

Bellamy walks out first, Clarke’s eyes trained on him with as much threat as the pistol she’s pointing at his back. Behind her Octavia has the long edge of her sword against Pike’s neck.

They break out of the front door to find the two armies poised to charge. Hannah hadn’t just assembled the guard; it seems as if every Arkadian large enough to lift a stun-stick is waiting behind the lines of the fence, gazing out through the wire at a hillside covered in line after line of the Coalition army. Compared to the quiet discipline of the grounders the sky people are anxious, huddled together in smaller groups behind the thin line of the trained guardsmen.

Octavia drags Pike up next to Clarke.

“Tell them to surrender. Now.”

Pike looks at Clarke and considers refusing, until Octavia pushes his chin up with her sword.

“It’s over. Put down your guns.”

The faces turn to look up at him, incredulous.

“Put them down!” Pike orders.

First one, then another, then the rifles, pistols and shock sticks fall to the ground with a clatter.

Silence reigns, until Raven comes bursting out of the ship.

“Run! Run! The whole thing’s gonna blow!”

Clarke has a split-second to notice Raven’s limp has returned before the swell of Arkadians behind her threatens to fill the small yard.

“Open the gate!”

As she sprints the small distance from the ship to the gate, the part of her brain not screaming at her about the explosions whispers the doubt that now, just when she needs them to follow her lead the guards will have a sudden change of heart and pick up their guns for Pike again.

She sails through the open gate towards the waiting lines of dark warriors.

“We surrender! We surrender!”

Too easily, the mass exodus of the Arkadians could be seen as an attack. Over and over again she calls out her surrender in Trigedasleng, in English, searching the masked faces for some kind of acknowledgement, for any movement in the long line of spears and swords.The rest of the Arkadians draw up behind her, trapped between the final explosions of the collapsing ship and the immutable army in front of Clarke.

“We surrender!”

“Chil yu daun!” The voice stops Clarke in her tracks as sure as if she’d just run into a tree.

Lexa rides through the ranks of her warriors, stepping respectfully aside for their Commander.

Both she and her horse are fully armed and armoured for war. A leather shield is strapped across the horse’s broad chest, white painted skillfully across his head to turn it into a snarling skull. Lexa’s normally bare head is covered in a helm topped by a pauna skull. Metal cheek pieces sweep down to meet the sharp teeth of the lower jaw, framing the black strip of Lexa’s eyes. From under the high black pauldrons her blood-red cloak flows down her back and over her horse’s rump, and her breastplate shines softly in the early morning sun. One mailed hand lightly grips the reins, the other holds the bared steel of her sword. Perfectly trained, the dark bay comes to a gentle halt immediately in front of Clarke without any obvious signal from Lexa. Roan, his armour bedecked with bones, and Thara, in light leather, rein up their horses on either side of her.

In her stained travelling gear Clarke feels distinctly under-dressed.

Then she remembers the markings she’d painted across her eyes the night before. Every warrior in Lexa’s army will recognise she’s wearing the marks of their Heda as she brings the Skaikru back to the coalition.

Clarke knows exactly what she has to do. In private, Lexa’s fealty may be sworn to her forever and without hesitation but in public she must bow to the Commander, or face open anarchy.

The Commander of Death kneels before the Commander of War, and looks up into a face she had last seen framed against the sheets of the bed they shared.

“Ai laik Wanheda, Klark kom Skaikru. I swear my loyalty on behalf of my people, and ask for mercy.”

She speaks in Trigedasleng, but Lexa’s reply is in English; a gesture of understanding towards the Arkadians who have not yet bothered to learn the grounder’s language.

“We will take the one you call Pike. His captains may be punished as you see fit.”

Lexa’s face shows is stern and devoid of passion, but Clarke doesn’t need open acknowledgement to see this declaration for the mercy it is. Octavia brings Pike forward without prompting.

“Indra kom Trigedakru!”

Lexa’s formally devoted lieutenant appears from the rank of the Skaikru, jaw locked.

“The blood of Pike kom Skaikru is yours to spill,” Lexa declares.

If this has any impact on Indra, neither her face nor her words acknowledge it. She steps forward silently and walks through the gap left by Lexa’s passing. Octavia follows, pushing Pike before her.

“Come,” Lexa orders Clarke, turning her horse away before Clarke has even regained her feet. She glances behind her and sees her mother, Kane and Monty shepherding people towards the plain beside the now burning ship. She catches Kane’s eyes, and he nods to her. They can handle the small stuff; she must go and be their voice.

Lexa leads her through the sharpened stakes into a surprisingly ordered camp, lines of tents stretching away across the gentle slope. At the centre a raised platform has been built, where Lexa, Roan and Thara dismount.

Lexa has just settled in her place at the centre of the platform when the snarling of dogs breaks out at the rear of the camp. A man the height and width of a small bear strides down the path between the tents, pushing along a shapeless human covered in rags.

“Kerber kom Trishana!” Thara shouts, “You’re late.”

“My dogs ate the pigeons, and their messages too. I brought a gift.”

With one huge hand Kerber throws his prisoner down by the neck. He gets his hands under him, spits out dirt, then turns his face up to the assembled leaders.

“Murphy,” Clarke gasps.

“You know this man?” Lexa demands.

“He was one of the hundred sent down in the first ship. He was one of… he was at Ton DC, he left with Jaha, I don’t know… what happened to you?”

“The usual fun stuff that always happens to me,” Murphy cackles, holding up one arm to reveal fresh welts and cuts. “Making friends and having parties.”

“He was being held by your fleimkepa.”

Lexa jumps to her feet. “This cannot be true!”

Murphy starts laughing again. This time the effort seems to hurt; he has to cough and spit several times before he can speak.

“Oh, it’s true. He had me in some kinda shrine underground, all mystical paintings and handy poles to tie sacrifices to.” He spits again. “He was asking about that fucking pill Jaha’s been trying to shove down everyone’s throat, about Clarke…” For the first time he meets Clarke’s eyes dead on. “He wants to kill you.”

The Trikru begin to shout, calling on their leader to kill Murphy, to kill Titus, to bring all the Skaikru in for questioning. Clarke is frozen in place, hearing none of it. She’d known Titus had hated her, disapproved of her and Lexa, but murder? Is there no end to the people who want her dead?

“Ryder,” Lexa calls on a nearby warrior. “Go to Polis immediately and arrest Titus. If what this Murphy says is true, he will suffer the thousand cuts upon my return. Kerber, you have my thanks. Hand your prisoners over to Ryder before he leaves to secure them. Thara, Roan, I’ll be in my tent; meet me there once you have seen to your men.”

With a jerk of her head Lexa summons Clarke to follow her to her tent, almost identical to the one they first met in.

“You did well,” Lexa murmurs, her back to Clarke as she slowly sheds her armour, piece by piece.

“I destroyed everything my people had. Their home is gone.”

“But the people in it are still alive. Have faith - you will rebuild.”

“Not fast enough.” 

Clarke steps quickly around to stand in front of Lexa. It’s almost a mistake; without her helm on the full shape of Lexa’s face, lips slightly opened in surprise, is very distracting. In the wake of what could have been the bloodiest battle since the formation of the coalition, Lexa cannot be seen as anything but Heda, undisputed. She definitely cannot be too close to the new leader of the only recently forgiven Skaikru. If their plan, their peace, is to have any chance at success, they each have to play their part to the full. With effort Clarke forces her thoughts under control and focuses on her entreaty.

“We don’t know how to live down here. This whole - everything that’s happened has been because the Arkers still see themselves as different. If they’re ever going to change I have to make them see. We have to show them a different way.”

“Lincoln’s village.” Lexa pulls one of the maps out from under the chaotic mess on her table, and taps the spot where TonDC used to be. “If your people help them rebuild, they will help your people.”

“My people need a lot of help.”

“They still need you.”

“Now more than ever.”

Lexa offers up her arm to Clarke and once more they grasp each other in a warrior’s greeting. This time their elbows stay locked to keep them a pace apart, and Clarke has to work hard to see the beat of Lexa’s heart, wanting. Behind the mask she wears as Heda Clarke can see the resolve in Lexa’s eyes crumbling just as quickly as her own.

“Go in peace, Wanheda. Until we meet again.”

They break apart when the clan leaders enter the tent, still blood-stained, dirty and wired up from the fight. Each one firmly ignores Clarke’s presence as they take up their places around Lexa’s map table. They still see her as an enemy, she knows; not an equal.

As the sun begins to rise towards the peak of the mountain, it breaks into long spears that plunge through the trees. Gaping up at the skyline, Clarke tries to count the days she’s been without sleep. Three, maybe four.

Gods, she is tired.

She stumbles down the hill towards the ruins of Arkadia, hoping she’s too exhausted to dream.


	6. Passion's Slave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke takes control of her people, both good and bad, and gets them settled just in time for a distraction in the form of Lexa. Plot bunnies are bouncing everywhere. May be slightly longer than usual.

Lincoln shakes her awake.

 

“Clarke? Clarke. Clarke.”

 

“I’m up I’m up...!” Clarke protests as she struggles into sit position.

 

For a moment, she just squints at Lincoln, taking in the sight of a man she had known as a Trikru warrior in a barred mask now lightly bearded and clad in the coat of an Arkadian guard.

 

“Wha-?”

 

Clarke sits up, and looks past Lincoln towards the war camp on the hill that is still so different from the disarray around her. Her hands touch the soft grass either side of the hollow where she slept. The sun has flown past noon, but still high enough to show her she’s only slept a few hours.

 

Clarke accepts Lincoln’s offered hand to help her to her feet. She knows why he’s there without having to ask. Time to go to work.

 

As she pulls on the jacket she had bundled as a pillow, Clarke notices the others with Lincoln. Trikru, in scouting clothes, with packs slung over their backs. They are bareheaded and clean of the usual warpaint and none of them are making any moves to act on Lexa’s kill order.

 

“I’ve been pardoned,” Lincoln explains. “Everyone here is a volunteer, come to help settle Skaikru into TonDC.”

 

“Come to keep an eye on us.”

 

Lincoln’s face breaks into the ghost of a grin.

 

“Something like that.”

 

Lincoln and his group march behind her through the camp, as reassuring a presence as the weight of her pistol at her hip. Now, she almost feels like she has more in common with them than with her own people.

 

Especially her mother, marching towards her with Kane in tow.

 

Earlier she’d managed to stave off the concerned questions by begging exhaustion. Now, there’s no escape, and Abby launches right in.

 

“You handed over Pike for execution?!”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s illegal! That might be how the grounders work, but it’s not  _ our  _ justice.”

 

“Our justice, their justice…” Clarke shakes her head wearily. “We have to stop drawing these lines. We are grounders now. Get used to it.”

 

“The Exodus Charter…” Kane gasps.

 

“The Exodus Charter put Pike in charge and let him murder three hundred people without a hand lifted to stop him.”

 

“We have to respect democracy, even when we don’t like the outcome.”

 

“Maybe that was a mistake.”

 

“You mean we’re not going to have elections?”

 

“Not now. Things are too unstable.”

 

“The people have to choose a Chancellor! You can’t just take control - “

 

Clarke cocks an eyebrow at him. “Who else? You?”

 

For the first time Kane looks beyond Clarke to the group with her, looking more and more like a bodyguard. Maybe he hears the unspoken condemnation in Clarke’s eyes: if he wouldn’t stand up to Pike and his crimes, what right has he to his righteous anger at her?

 

These first moments are key, so Clarke gives him only a short time to think. The more he mulls it over, the more lenient she is, the more control she’ll have to claw back later. Now is the time to press the advantage.

 

“How many did we lose?” she demands from Abby.

 

“Two from farm station who were crushed by debris. A few - Zoe included - that might not make it now we’ve lost the medical gear.”

 

Clarke turns to Lincoln; “You have a healer with you?”

 

He nods; a woman with long hair bound tightly down her back steps forward.

 

Abby dithers.

 

“There’s something else... Jaha didn’t make it. Some people saw him heading in, towards the infirmary, while we were trying to evacuate.”

 

“We think he was trying to retrieve the chip maker,” Kane adds.

 

“The chips that Raven took?”

 

Abby nods. “Clarke… she’s not looking so good.”

 

“Show me,” Clarke orders; for once, her mother follows without protesting. It must be serious.

 

With the Trikru still guarding Clarke’s footsteps, she follows Abby towards the only tent in their camp. Inside it’s dark, all the drapes cut to let light in have been kept down to hide the sick and injured from the living. There are none of the cots Clarke’s used to setting up for emergency medical detail. The patients are on the floor, some bedded down by friends and relatives with whatever they could find: clothes, fur, moss.

 

Although the other Trikru stay outside, the healer immediately drags Abby away to pick her brain for case histories. Clarke allows herself an internal smile. Of course Lincoln would make sure all of his volunteers spoke English.

 

Near the back of the tent, partially screened off from the others, Clarke finds the prostrate form of her friend closely guarded by Sinclair.

 

“Look who it is,” Raven chuckles. “Hero of the hour.”

 

“That’s you and you know it,” Clarke insists as she crouches down next to Raven. “How are you feeling?”

 

“There’s some pain. And...her.”

 

“The neural blocker came free at some point,” Sinclair explains. “Whatever was controlling her before, it’s back and we can’t stop it.”

 

Clarke leans in. As morbid as she knows this is, it could help her drag this shadowy new enemy into the light.

 

“What do you see?”

 

“Legs for  _ days _ ,” Raven japes, “And a dress to kill for.”

 

A spasm shoots through her leg and she curls up in agony. Sinclair’s hand is there waiting and ready to grip hers, a silent bastion through her pain. Clarke recognises the look on his face. It’s the same one her father wore whenever she was ill as a child.

 

“Her name is ALIE, and she’s angry at me. She’s… fuck….some kind of AI, from before...she was looking for something, some program or bug on the ark - urgh -“ 

 

This time Raven’s whole body thrashes and it takes both Sinclair and Clarke to hold her down. Afterwards she is sweating and panting hard, but as determined as falling water.

 

“Whatever it is, it can destroy her. I don’t know… what she wants…. But I’d bet my grav boots it’s not good.”

 

Raven smiles weakly at Clarke’s hand squeezing her shoulder in affirmation.

 

“You did good,” Clarke murmurs. 

 

Into the quiet moment, as in to many such moments, a commotion arrives.

 

Outside the tent, Lincoln and his group are facing off against Bellamy, Hannah and a group of former guards. They are free of restraints, she realises. Lexa’s transferral of punishment has been assumed to mean full amnesty.

 

This is going to be messy.

 

“Clarke!” Hannah yells over the arm of a Trikru warrior. “Traitor! Blood is on your hands. Arrest her!”

 

“No,” Clarke replies, despite the distaste for what she has to do next. “Arrest them.”

 

“What?!”

 

Both Hannah and Bellamy begin to shout protests at her; a couple of the more volatile guards try to fight against the Trikru.

 

Immediately Kane is at her elbow.

 

“Clarke, you’re not going to -”

 

“Exile,” she interrupts firmly. “If you’re ever seen in coalition lands again, they’ll kill you.  _ We’ll _ kill you.”

 

“Princess, you can’t...”

 

“Go! Go. Go, and live with what you’ve done.”

 

“In the Dead Zone? That’s a death sentence and you know it. You’re just sending us someplace you won’t have to watch.”

 

Clarke can’t bring herself to answer, to put words to what she’s doing. Once, she would have tried to explain. Once, Bellamy would have listened, and tried to understand. Now, she just inclines her head at Lincoln, who steps forward threateningly.

 

Bellamy storms around but has only taken a few steps away when he stop, and asks quietly, “What about Zoe? She supported Pike too, y’know. Are you going to exile her, or is that just for people who are a threat to you?”

 

“We’ll give her time to heal. Hear what she has to say.”

 

Lincoln takes hold of Bellamy’s arm and, with the other warriors detailed to him, marches Pike’s men up the hill. Clarke turns away to see Monty, silent and overlooked on the edge of the dispersing group, watching his mother forced away.

 

Clarke goes to reach out to him, but he steps back. “Monty...I’m so sorry but - I had to.” 

 

“I know. I know. I know you had to. I just… it’s never going to stop, is it? You’re always going to have make the hard choices, and we’re always going to have to live with them.”

 

Monty offers her a sad smile, and then leaves her alone in the middle of the camp.

 

//

 

**Three Months Later**

 

It seems almost every other day has brought some form of petty dispute nipping at her heels like so many small angry dogs. The Skaikru do not adjust smoothly to taking care of themselves and to living in peace with their Trikru hosts. Mediations over burnt smoking huts, botched butchering and incompetent building work are not quite as grand as the formal throne rooms of Polis, but at least here she can see the progress.

 

She’d thought that today’s annoyance would be the wild boar hunt that landed three people in Abby and Nara’s infirmary. It turns out that’s small biscuits compared to Lexa’s sudden arrival, with full entourage.

 

It’s just like the TonDC chieftain to forget to tell her about something like this.

 

“Heda Leksa,” Clarke greets her formally, repressing the conflicting urges to scream in frustration and grab hold of Lexa as if she were an anchor. “Kokkorro says you’ve brought Murphy back.” 

 

Clarke makes a point of speaking in Trigedasleng as often as she can, trying to influence the more reluctant Skaikru to learn at least some of the language. They may not appreciate it but Lexa clearly does, inclining her head in respect and answering in the same tongue.

 

“He spoke true - he is free to go. As Skaikru, his fate is in your hands now.”

 

“His fate?” Clarke thinks back to all the plans destroyed by Murphy, the deaths that might have been prevented without him. He’s trouble, she can’t keep him here, but he’s committed no crime worthy of exile. If she starts banishing people because they’re inconvenient, then she truly will have become what Bellamy saw. “I don’t know. Murphy - what do you want?”

 

Murphy laughs.

 

“What’s so funny?”

 

“I don’t think anyone’s actually asked me what I want since we landed on this forsaken rock.”

 

“Does that mean you don’t have an answer?” Clarke asks.

 

Murphy looks towards Emori, still restrained by one of Lexa’s men, and smiles.

 

“No, I have an answer. I’ll leave - so long as we’re both free to go.”

 

“Let him go,” Clarke orders. “The woman too.”

 

Predictably, Ryder looks to Lexa for a nod of approval before releasing his captives. Some things never change.

 

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. They move as a unit to show the strength of the peace between their clans, side by side but constantly surrounded and pressed for attention. Clarke tours Lexa around the village, showing her the rebuilding efforts. Lexa steps into the training ring with the village’s young warriors, listens to the elders’ plans for the spring, inspects the small, shaggy goat-like creatures in their winter folds.

 

Three are slaughtered and cooked in strips over massive fire pits, specially dug to host the Heda of the Clans. Clarke and Lexa are seated side by side in chairs carved from the base of massive trees, dried root systems rising above them in intricate, random tangles.

 

Although far from private, they are close enough to talk without being clearly overheard.

 

Clarke leans in, and murmurs, “Three months to bring Murphy back - I thought grounder justice was swift.”

 

“It is - usually. Politics got in the way.”

 

“How?”

 

“Roan wanted some concessions - land, trade rights, marriage pacts - so he publicly objected to Murphy as a witness. Skaikru had rejected the coalition and so were not members at the time of the crime, he said.”

 

“Marriage pacts?” Clarke can’t keep the interest out of her voice. Even Lincoln has been secretive about the personal rites of the Trikru. Combining the time in TonDC and Polis she’s been living with the clan almost half a year now, and still sometimes feels like she knows next to nothing about them.

 

“Roan wanted to marry Aden to his daughter.”

 

“Roan has a daughter?!” Clarke tries and fails to picture the stern Ice Nation warrior as a father, balancing his child on his shoulders.

 

“Two still fighting, although their mother’s fight is over.”

 

“Then how come he didn’t ask to marry you?” Clarke almost immediately regrets the question when the unbidden image of Lexa and Roan standing side-by-side pops into her head.

 

“Azgeda marry. Trikru do not. Aden is still young enough to change allegiance if he wants.  _ I am  _ Trikru.”

 

The emphasis Lexa places on those two short words hits Clarke’s stomach like turned milk. Lexa is important to her, without question, but sometimes she lets that feeling eclipse how important Lexa is to everybody. If she falls….

 

Her mind’s image of Roan suddenly turns to face Lexa, a knife in his hand.

 

“Look, Lexa - there’s something I have to tell you.”

 

For a beat of a wing Lexa looks hopeful, but is quickly crushed by the serious lines of Clarke’s expression.

 

“It’s Roan. You can’t trust him.”

 

Lexa smiles, almost indulgently. “Of course not. I can’t truly trust any of the clan leaders; they have their own people to think of, to put first.”

 

“No, it’s more than that. When... when you were holding me in Polis, he was the one who gave you that knife. He wants you dead.”

 

Lexa sighs, and shifts forward to pour cider from a jug into two waiting cups.

 

“Of course he does.”

 

“You don’t seem worried.”

 

“I am weary,” Lexa admits. “Weary of the constant killing. Not four days ago I ended Titus’ life, and now you would have me cause more deaths by challenging the King of Azgeda? No. He is a far better neighbour than Ontari would be. He might beat his knife on the table and talk big at clan summons, but he will behave now he has what he wants. Still -  why wait until now to tell me?”

 

“Everything in Polis was just so uncertain, and then after…” Clarke shrugs, still unable to

 

“So why bring it up now? Are you concerned he’ll betray me again?”

 

“Maybe. Or have you forgotten that time he almost killed you in a duel?”

 

“He had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. A desperate man will risk much more than one with a kingdom at stake. If I killed every person who wanted to kill me in the past, there would be very few of my people left. Anyway...” Lexa sighs deeply. “There is too much to do.”

 

“And you think  _ you  _ have to do it all,” Lexa’s continuously blase attitude towards the likelihood of her death continuously rankles Clarke. “You didn’t need to come personally to deliver Murphy, you know. You could have sent someone.”

 

Lexa shrugs, a minimal gesture in which only one shoulder moves, and lets a smile creep in at the edges of her mouth. 

 

“Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

 

The admission is a little raw for Clarke, and she pulls back from the little skip in her belly that wants to tell Lexa she is glad to see her too.

 

“C’mon,” she says instead, and leads Lexa out towards the firepit to the waiting food, choking away the heat behind her eyes that threatens tears.

 

The apple cider the Grounders brew is vastly different from the Ark moonshine, and neither Lexa or Clarke are used to drinking it. Fairly soon they’re in the hut Clarke has called home for the past few months, splayed on the platform and pile of furs that passes for a bed, flushed and laughing. 

 

Lexa’s hands wave animatedly through the air as she begins to describe the conditioning exercises from her childhood.

“Handstands?!”

“It was a mediation exercise. You had to hold the position carefully but keep your mind blank. I’ll show you.”

Before Clarke can stop her Lexa has jumped to her feet and flipped over into a surprisingly graceful handstand considering the number of bottles they had emptied. For a moment she hangs in suspended perfection.

Lexa’s leg flails out to the side just as Clarke jumps forward, not so much catching her as cushioning her fall. They lie in a crumpled mess on the floor and between giggles Clarke presses her nose against Lexa’s.

 

Lexa meets her eyes and the laughter fades.

 

It’s been months since Clarke has seen her this intensely vulnerable and they’ve danced so many steps she’s not sure where to go next. 

 

In the end, Lexa answers the questions by kissing her.

 

It’s a soft, brief kiss, more question than passion. Can they do this? Is now a day they can have?

 

Instead of an equally gentle response Clarke grabs a fistful of hair and roughly yanks Lexa towards her, kissing hard enough to bruise. It’s hungry and a little sloppy but Lexa warms instantly, grabbing hold of Clarke’s waist and returning it with enthusiasm. As soon as Lexa relaxes into the kiss Clarke pushes harder, teeth scraping against her tongue. Clarke’s hand comes up sharply under her jaw and forces her head back so Clarke can nip and kiss a trail down the ridge of Lexa’s neck.

 

Soft can come later. Right now, Clarke  _ wants _ .

 

From the response she’s getting, Lexa wants just as much.

  
Between them, they make a space shut off from the people outside by more than the walls of the hut, and fall into it together.


End file.
